


Tidy Little Lives

by Jaelijn



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Post-Gauda Prime, Pre-Way Back, Season/Series 01, Snapshots, Spoilers, Yes all of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 18:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Avon muses.





	Tidy Little Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Another one from [Rebels and Fools issue #3](https://rebelsandfools.tumblr.com/post/186885179223/rebels-and-fools-issue-3). Enjoy!

_Such tidy little lives_, Avon thought with disgust as he watched his neighbours trail back to their flats all around him. He was caught up in the after-shift throng himself; it was inescapable in Earth’s domes, even in the sections reserved for the higher classes. Yet Avon had never considered himself a part of it, and he suspected he never would.

They were his intellectual inferiors, sum and all, whether they were on drugged rations or not. Oh, Avon wasn’t so arrogant to claim that, perhaps, somewhere on Earth, there mightn’t be a handful of people who were his equals, but as yet Avon hadn’t met any of them. And the rest… living such tidy little lives, having any ambition and individuality drugged out of them, or being happy and content to have that ambition channelled and guided by the all-seeing administration.

Some of Avon’s colleagues had done their utmost to make him believe that that was the way it should be – that the Federation knew best, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy within the limits they set, and that Avon should be glad that he was among those few privileged enough to do intellectual work, to be unencumbered by the suppressant drugs. To insinuate anything else was dangerous, illegal, talk of _rebellion_.

_Rebellion. _The big bad wolf of the Federation.

Avon had no interest in the rebellion, no interest in politics or the subordinated masses. His motives were entirely self-centred, entirely selfish. It was only that he chafed at restrictions, had chafed at restrictions since he had been very young. It was only too easy for him to see behind the illusion of choice that the Federation gave those _privileged few_, to see the bars of their golden cage, and, he thought privately, that illusion of choice was almost worse than having no choice at all.

He couldn’t imagine himself ever being content, not so long as he was forced to work according to someone else’s plan and guidance, according to someone else’s stupidity. He was clever, cleverer than all of them. They were trudging back from work around him, back to their tidy little unchanging unchallenging lives, prepared to do it all over again the next day, and the next and the next, until the day they died. Well, Avon wasn’t like them, wasn’t _anything _like them, and there _had _to be a way…

* * *

_Tidy little lives_, Avon thought, watching the straggling partygoers careening through the streets into the direction of the marketplace. Well concealed in the shadow of an entryway, out of sight and out of the drizzly rain, Avon mused that the celebrations were probably the most exciting thing these people had experienced all year. A nominally unaligned world, the people on this particular planet were just far enough outside of Federation influence to have escaped the suppressant drugs, but still close enough for Federation control to slowly insinuate itself into their lives – which, naturally, was why the _Liberator _had come here. But they lived uneventful lives, all things considered. The Federation wouldn’t bother with a military takeover here; there would be no need. Whether the populace continued to work for their colony’s government or ended up ultimately working for the Federation would make little difference to the ordinary people.

Avon ducked back into the shadows as a drunken couple – two women, clinging to one another in utter abandon – staggered past a little too close for comfort. Avon’s movement jostled Vila, who was hovering at his elbow, but provoked no reaction from his companion. Vila’s eyes were anxiously riveted on the crowds, scanning for their crewmates. They were running late for their meeting to teleport back.

“What’s keeping them, do you think?” Vila asked.

“Probably the crowds,” Avon said, not really concerned, as yet – it had only been a few minutes, and Jenna and Gan were moving against the throng of people.

“There they are!” Vila pointed, and Avon spotted Gan’s bulk over the heads of the crowds.

“Yes.” Avon turned away, stepping further into the pompous entryway to make space for the others. He spared a final glance at the celebrating populace as he turned away, found himself looking for the couple that had passed them earlier. _Tidy little lives_, Avon thought again. He quickly squashed the pang of emotion that followed on the heels of the thought, but not quite before he could identify it for what it was – envy.

* * *

_A tidy little life_. Avon stared up at the ceiling of the bedroom, surprising himself with the thought. He’d never thought he’d wanted one, and then he’d thought he could never possibly have one – not as a convicted criminal, who had just lost everything that mattered anyway, and certainly not later, as a rebel and a terrorist and a murderer, with a bounty on his head that dwarfed the amount of money he had thought to embezzle from the Federation all those years ago. He hadn’t dared to admit how much he wanted it; how much he wanted it all to be over so he could _live_ – just _live_, without fearing for his life, without running, without the constant strain.

Until, when it was all over, it suddenly occurred to him that he _could _have it. He could have _this_, if only he asked. So he had, and now he did.

Avon turned his head on the pillow, smiling at the sight that greeted him. There was no reason why it should fill him with such a warm glow, but it did, inevitably, naturally. Vila’s thin hair was in utter disarray from sleeping and his experiment of a beard looked even scruffier in the mornings. It wouldn’t last – the beard. It never did with Vila. Avon didn’t care one way or another, but sooner rather than later Vila always ended up hating it.

Avon propped himself up on his elbow, contemplating his still sleeping husband. He brushed his fingers softly over Vila’s hair, amused at the strands that wouldn’t be smoothed down.

Vila mumbled something that might have been Avon’s name, smacked his lips once and opened his eyes. “Oh hey.”

“Good morning.” Avon bent down to steal a kiss, no more bothered by the morning breath than by the beard.

Vila’s hands tangled in Avon’s own hair, pulling him down for a second, then a third sleepy brush of their lips. “Hmh, has to be good if it starts like this.”

Avon grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

Vila tugged at his shoulders, toppling him back onto the mattress and half over Vila’s chest. “Cuddle?”

It was already happening, and Avon couldn’t bring himself to complain. He wasn’t the one being squashed by a grown man’s weight, and Vila never protested. Avon inhaled against Vila’s skin, soaking up the warmth and solidity of the chest under him, the reassuring hands stroking his back.

“Got any plans for today, Avon?” Vila asked softly, a grin in his voice.

“None whatsoever.”

“Great. Neither do I. What do you think we should do?”

“I think we’ve already started,” Avon mused, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. His hands reached to mess up Vila’s hair up even more, and Avon settled down into the embrace with a deep, contended sigh.

A tidy little life. Uneventful, unspectacular, downright boring. Avon wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
